The Autistic Leanings of Doctor Reid
by CatWingsAthena
Summary: "Jason Gideon, an expert in the criminal psyche yet unable to diagnose the autistic leanings of the very insecure Dr. Reid." After "Broken Mirror", Reid has something he needs to tell Gideon. Gideon already knows. It's not a big deal. (Set Season 1, after L.D.S.K.) Chapter 2: Reid finally has a meltdown at work. Gideon is helpful.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hey, everybody! This work contains internalized ableism, non-specific references to meltdowns, and a brief reference to canon-typical violence. Hope you enjoy!**

Reid paused at the door to Gideon's office.

He didn't want to bother Gideon with something unimportant. _This could be important._ He didn't want to waste his time. _This is anything but a waste of time._

Okay, he was nervous.

How Gideon reacted to what he was about to say would determine the course of his entire future. _Maybe you don't have to tell him, you've been doing fine so far, you're under no obligation..._

No. He needed to know.

Reid took a deep breath and knocked on the door. "Excuse me?" he called.

"Come in," said Gideon, and Reid did. "Please, sit down."

Gideon was seated at his desk. As Reid sat down, Gideon leaned forward. "What brings you here?" he asked.

"Um... what the unsub said about me, in the Trish Davenport case? Well, really what he said about you, but it had to _do_ with me—" Reid broke off.

"Yes?" said Gideon, who Reid was fairly certain knew exactly what he was talking about.

"Well... it's true. I am autistic," Reid said, looking anywhere but at Gideon. "Does that bother you?"

"Reid, you work in the behavioral analysis unit," said Gideon. "I know. Everyone on this team knows. And no, it doesn't bother me, or anyone else as far as I'm aware."

Reid blinked. "Really? E-everyone knows?" he stammered. "And—it doesn't bother anyone? But—"

"Should it?" asked Gideon.

"Well—you said it yourself, I think inside the box..."

"And you make connections none of the rest of us would make in a million years because you see patterns we don't. Yes, the scope of your thinking is sometimes too narrow—but if I were to fire everyone on this team who had a flaw in their thinking that affected their work, I'd be out seven people. We all have our weaknesses—and we all have our strengths, as well."

"Thank you," said Reid. "I'll just—get back to work then."

Reid stood and started to move towards the door. When he had nearly reached it, Gideon's voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Have you ever had a meltdown at work?"

"Excuse me?" said Reid, turning around with his hand still on the doorknob.

"You know what I said," said Gideon, waving Reid over. "C'mon, sit back down. If you know you're autistic, you know what a meltdown is. Have you ever had one at work?"

"I can do this job," Reid bristled.

"That I'm not questioning," Gideon said gently. "I just need to know."

"No," said Reid. "Or even at school, not since I was a kid."

"But you do have them?"

Reid took a deep breath. "Yes."

"Makes sense," said Gideon. "You bottle it all up until it's safe and appropriate to let it out. That's good. But this job is high-stress even for people who don't have a mental disorder, and you need to be prepared for the possibility that your usual coping mechanisms will break down."

Slowly, Reid nodded. "What do I do?"

"I'm guessing you do it already," said Gideon. "Wherever you go, you know where all the places are where you can be alone, right? Single-user bathrooms, that sort of thing?"

"Yes," said Reid.

"If you're ever at work and you feel a meltdown coming on," said Gideon, "get yourself somewhere safe. If I don't happen to be in the middle of something, let me know, but if I am don't worry about it. Don't worry about missing things, the team'll fill you in. And _definitely_ don't try to go out in the field if you think you might be close to a meltdown. If it happens in the office, you'll be fine, but if it happens in the field, we could have problems."

"I know," said Reid. "About the _letting you know_ part of what you just said..."

"Yes?"

"When I'm about to have a meltdown," said Reid, fidgeting uncomfortably, "my ability to speak tends to be... minimal to nonexistent." He paused. "I mean, I don't really know, because I haven't had a meltdown with anyone else around for years, but that was my past experience."

"Okay," said Gideon. "Can you use a hand signal?"

"That should work," said Reid. "Like this?" He brought his fingertips together into a point, held his hand at chest level, then _popped_ his fingers open.

"Fairly subtle, yet unmistakable," said Gideon. "That works."

"Thank you," said Reid. "I have work to do now, so I should leave..."

"Close the door on your way out," said Gideon, "and feel free to come back anytime you want to talk about the other reason you came here."

Slowly, Reid turned around once again and sat back down.

"Do you think there's something wrong with me?" he asked. "In your professional opinion."

"If I did, you wouldn't be working here," said Gideon. "What do _you_ think is wrong with you?"

"I just—" Reid broke off. "I don't feel things the way normal people do. And—I do feel things, but _how_ I feel things isn't right. And we work with so many people who don't feel things the normal way and do horrible things because of it, and I just can't help but wonder if it takes one to know one." Reid was once again staring determinedly at the wall.

Gideon half-smiled. "What are you saying about this entire team?" he said.

"No!" Reid exclaimed. "Not the rest of you! Just—"

" _Just_ you," said Gideon, pulling out a large book, flipping to a dog-eared page and placing it on the desk. "DSM-IV, PTSD, criterion C, four through six for me, will you?"

"Um, 'markedly diminished interest or participation in significant activities', 'feeling of detachment or estrangement from others', and 'restricted range of affect, e.g. unable to have loving feelings'," said Reid.

"You're not the only one who feels things differently," said Gideon.

Reid nodded.

"But that's just it," he said. "You guys, you've seen so much. It makes sense you'd feel differently than most people do, you've had to learn to, to get by. I'm brand new at this, and I—I should feel more. I _shot_ someone a few days ago, and—I'm fine. And—all the stuff we see—it doesn't bother me. I know it should, but it doesn't."

"Well, that just means you're in the right line of work," said Gideon. "Some people have a harder time with this stuff than others; you're one of the ones who finds it easier to cope with. And about the man you shot, I'll tell you the same thing I told you then-not knowing what you're feeling is different from not feeling anything at all." He paused. "Reid, do you know how many people with mental disorders-of any kind-there are in the United States?"

Reid blinked at this apparent non sequitur. Still, he trusted that Gideon knew what he was talking about. "Approximately forty-three point eight million in a given year," he said. "That's around one in five."

"And do you know what the rate of violent crime is among that population?"

"Well, it varies by disorder, and whether the person also has a substance abuse disorder, and whether they're being effectively treated..."

"But what's the bottom line?"

"The vast majority of people with mental disorders aren't violent, and are in fact more likely to be the victims of violent crime than the perpetrators."

"That's right," said Gideon. "We deal with the minority. People call us in when there's a violent offender they can't understand, and often that means mental illness of some sort. So we forget. We're so busy trying to catch the people like them that we forget about the people like you."

"Like me?" asked Reid.

"Ordinary people whose minds don't work the same as everyone else's, just trying to get on with their lives. And we have to focus on the minority-it's our job. So we have to forget. But every now and then, it might not hurt us to remember." He paused. "There's nothing inherently wrong with thinking or feeling differently. There are lots of ways to be in the world that don't hurt anyone, and I'm very confident yours is one of them. In fact, I'm willing to bet yours is going to help a lot of people."

"Thank you," said Reid. He smiled. "Okay. Now I'm _actually_ leaving."

"Best of luck with your paperwork," said Gideon.

"Shouldn't be too hard," said Reid as he opened the door.

"Of course not," said Gideon as Reid stood in the doorway. "You need anything else, you can come by. And don't forget what I said."

"I won't," said Reid, walking out the door and closing it behind him.

Reid took a deep breath.

Then he went back to his desk to finish his paperwork.

 **A/N: Hello again! Hope you liked my fic! Leave me a review if you did?**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: This chapter contains a detailed description of a meltdown and an incident of someone faking a disability to get accommodations for another disability (on behalf of someone else). Hope you enjoy!**

Reid would've been fine.

He would've been fine running on no sleep for 36 hours (and not being out of earshot of other human beings for a single second of that time). He would've been fine forcing himself to make eye contact with the local police during the briefing (it was part of the job, and such a familiar act it was scarcely even uncomfortable anymore). He would have been fine with the sudden change of plans that sent the team here in the first place (that was so common it barely even registered). He would have been fine with the relative stranger occupying the space where Elle should be (she seemed nice enough, and certainly competent).

Really, he would've been fine.

But then someone bumped into him in the hallway—full-on body-slam—and that was the last straw.

Normally, Reid had no problem with physical contact. But he needed to know it was coming, and he needed to trust the person he was coming into contact with.

Being unexpectedly slammed into by a stranger when he was already on edge was a recipe for disaster.

When the man in the hallway collided with him, Reid's world blanked out for a second. His upper body froze on pure instinct, and his legs stumbled backward to keep his balance. His hands moved up toward his face.

Dimly, he heard the man say, sorry.

Reid knew he was supposed to apologize as well. It was what happened when two people bumped into each other—both muttered "sorry" and went on their way.

I'm sorry, Reid tried to say. What came out was "I... I... I...", although it sounded more like "ah... ah... ah..."

Great.

The man gave him a look and walked away.

Reid was suddenly very aware of the buzz and glare of the fluorescent lights, the smell of bad coffee from down the hall, the way his shirt was itchy at the collar, and the fact that the man who'd bumped into him hadn't been wearing deodorant. He could hear people talking from the rooms off the hallway, but he couldn't make out any of the words. The voices just overlapped into a cacophony of chatter.

Reid could feel tears starting to prick at his eyes, and he fiercely blinked them away. He wasn't a child anymore, and he wasn't alone at home where he could fall apart in privacy. He was a grown man, in a police station full of strangers, and he could hold this off for the time it took to get himself out of sight.

When he'd arrived, Reid had scoped the station out for places to be alone. There was a single-user bathroom not far from where he was. As quickly as he could without looking suspicious, Reid made his way down the hall, trying to keep his expression neutral.

"Hey," asked an officer, "are you all right?"

"Fine," Reid heard his voice say. Thank you. Years of experience meant that his mouth and his brain sometimes split apart completely when he was on the verge of breaking down. He couldn't have made himself answer, but his mouth could go on autopilot and answer for him. Nothing complicated, but enough to allay suspicion. For a little while.

By the time he got to the single-user bathroom, Reid was shaking slightly. His face was contorted, and he was fighting to keep the tears back.

The bathroom was closed for cleaning.

Reid took a moment to mentally cuss out his situation, then took a deep, shaky breath. Plan. Make a plan.

Reid mentally mapped out the building, but there wasn't really anyplace else he could hide. It was a small precinct, underfunded, with no money to spare on extra rooms.

Gideon said to get himself somewhere safe... Gideon.

Having someone on his side who knew what was happening and could talk could make a lot of difference to his situation. Assuming he wasn't busy. Which he almost certainly was.

Reid took another deep breath and went to find Gideon.

Gideon, miracle of miracles, wasn't busy. Well, that was a lie. He was busy. He just wasn't busy with other people.

He was staring at the board with photos of the victims and crime scenes pinned up on it. There were other people in the room, but they weren't talking to Gideon.

That was all Reid needed. He walked up to Gideon with an apologetic look on his face and waved a hand in front of his line of sight. Once he had Gideon's attention, he made the fingers of one hand into a point, brought it to chest level, and popped his hand open.

"Gotcha," said Gideon. "Bathroom's closed for cleaning?"

Reid nodded.

"Well, I can fix that. Sorry there's noplace better."

Reid gave Gideon what he hoped was a grateful look, although he wasn't sure how well any of his facial expressions were working at the moment.

Gideon stood and gestured for Reid to follow. Momentarily, they arrived at the single-user bathroom.

Gideon knocked on the doorframe.

The janitor emerged. "Bathroom's closed," he said.

Reid's head was swimming, but he could hear Gideon saying something about my agent is diabetic, needs to administer insulin, could you come back and finish cleaning later?

And the janitor was saying wow, he doesn't look too good, yeah, I can come back, and leaving with the closed for cleaning sign.

Reid rushed into the bathroom, slammed the door behind him, and locked it. Then, he turned off the bathroom light, collapsed to the ground and finally let the tears fall.

Reid's whole body was shaking, and he had to bite his lip to keep from sobbing out loud (he wished he could sob, wail, scream, but this bathroom was anything but soundproof and that would draw attention he really didn't need).

So he just cried, as quietly as he could, as he hugged his knees and rocked back and forth on the bathroom floor.

Eventually, the tears slowed, then stopped altogether.

Reid took a deep breath. He felt much better—more grounded in his own body.

Just to be sure, Reid stood up, turned on the light (which didn't bother him nearly as much as it had before, despite being a fluorescent of the worst kind), and spun around in circles until he was too dizzy to continue.

Once he was done with that, Reid gripped the sink until the world stopped spinning, then looked at himself in the mirror.

The tear traces were mostly gone from his face, although his eyes were still a bit red. Reid splashed some cold water on his face and decided to leave it be. He'd been gone long enough.

One more thing.

"The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel," Reid recited to the mirror.

Good. He could speak. Still to be determined whether he could speak to people, but it was a start.

Reid unlocked the bathroom door and slowly pushed it open.

The hall outside the bathroom was empty. Good.

He walked down the hall and found his team in a meeting in a conference room.

"Hey guys," he said, closing the door behind him and making his way to the seat they'd saved for him. "Sorry I'm late."

"It's all right," said Gideon. "As I was saying..."

After the meeting, Gideon came up to Reid.

"You all right?" he asked.

Reid nodded. "Yes."

"Investigation's stalled. Go to your hotel room and try to get some sleep," said Gideon.

"Are you sure you don't need me?" asked Reid.

"We'll call you if we do," said Gideon. "Now go. Sleep."

Reid did.

 **A/N: Hello again! I hope you liked this! It was based heavily on my own personal experience with meltdowns, so here's hoping it resonates with some of you. I hope you have a wonderful day!**


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